


Between Wash and the Wall

by pippen2112



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Agent York, Asexual Agent Washington, Asexual Character, Canon-typical language, Gen, Injury, M/M, Project Freelancer, RvB Platonic Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 19:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12416088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: Late the night after the Sarcophagus Mission, York receives an unexpected visitor.Written for RvB Platonic Week, Day 3 Hurt/Comfort & Day 5 Hugs/Cuddles.Inspired by fanart by aromanticyork





	Between Wash and the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the following piece by aromanticyork: http://aromanticyork.tumblr.com/post/100389008493/bc-sometimes-things-suck-and-snugs-are-super 
> 
> It was one of the first pieces of fanart I ever saw when I got into the RvB fandom, and it's stuck with me since.

It’s late.  Too fuckin’ late, especially after a mission like _that_.  Sure, they achieved both objectives but not without taking heavy fire.  Last York had heard, Wyoming was still in the infirmary, getting a gallon of synthetic blood pumped into him, and Maine, well, you don’t take a clip to the throat without some lasting damage.  York shudders, his eye drawn to the empty bunk across from him.  In no time, Maine would be back, curling his hulking form into the standard sized bunk and glowering every time York tried to start up a conversation.  

York flops onto his back, pinches his brow, and tires to ignore how itchy the medical tape is against his cheek, how half of him wants to rip off the bandage and get a good look at how fucked up his face is.  Instead he balls his hands in his blankets and stares at the ceiling.  Fuckin’ sleep.  Why couldn’t he get lucky just once and conk out from exhaustion?  Was that so much to ask?   _Apparently._

Sleepless nights weren’t exactly a new predicament.  On the Mother of Invention, it felt like none of the support staff slept, not the scientists, not the crew, not even the Director.  So why would the Freelancers be able to catch a few z’s?  Still, nights like this, it’d be nice.

Before York could turn over onto his stomach and try to smother himself with a pillow--passing out totally counts as sleep, right?--someone thumps against his door.  Not a closed fisted bang or a gentle tap.  York sits up in bed, his brow furrowed.  Who the fuck wants to talk to him at this time of night.  He swings his legs out of bed, thinks belatedly about pulling on a shirt, when the door slides open.  

Squinting, York puts a hand up to block out the light, peers at the silhouette in his doorway.  Blonde fringe fading down to dark roots.  Slumped shoulders. Dark, freckle-littered skin. “Huh,” York says casually, because how the hell does Wash know the access code to his room?  “You’re not Maine.”

Wash’s head jerks up, his eyes widening in the darkness as the door slides closed behind him.  One arm unwraps from around his torso, scrubbing through his hair anxiously.  “Oh, hey York.  I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“You and me both.  Shouldn’t you be pretty much anywhere else?”

Wash tenses, his spine going rigid, but a moment later, he slumps forward, like nothing more than his stubbornness is keeping him upright.  “I mean, yeah, but medical said if I kept loitering in recovery they’d throw me in the brig.  And I didn’t wanna be alone right now.”

Recovery?  Why would Wash be waiti-- And just like that, York get it.  Recovery.  Because there’s only one person still in surgery, one Freelancer whose status on the leaderboard is still up in the air.  York remembers when Niner radioed he, Lina, and Texas would have to wait for the second round of dropships, remembers the background noises of North and Connie running triage to stabilize Maine, the touch-and-go reports as they sped back to Mother of Invention.  But that only explains so much of why Wash is here of all places.

“I mean, I’m flattered.  Don’t get me wrong, Rookie.  But usually you’ve gotta buy me dinner first.”

Wash’s brow creases for a moment before York’s words sink in.  He flinches.  “Ewwww.”

Laughing, York pulls his blanket over his chest, feigning self-consciousness.  “Well, _now_ I am hurt.”

“No, I didn’t mean--”

“--Too late, Wash,” he says in mock offense.  “Too.  Late.”

“--no, I meant, like, an ‘ew’ of general disgust.  Not ‘ew’ at you.  I don’t--”  Wash glares down at his feet, like the floor should’ve swallowed him by now and it’s not doing its job.  “I don’t _do_ that stuff.”

Face pinched in confusion, York shakes his head, hoping he can shake away all the unnecessary information and get back to the core of things.  Right now, Wash is here because he doesn’t wanna be alone.  “Okay, so if you aren’t here for ‘that stuff,’ why’re you here?”

Wash sighs and wraps his arms across his chest again.  “Look, just pretend I’m not here, okay?  I’ll just hang over here til FILSS gets word that the surgery’s done.”  Without waiting for a confirmation, Wash heads to Maine’s bunk and starts pulling back the blankets.

Now York’s eyebrow shoots up toward his hairline.  “Do what you want, man, but I wouldn’t want to be the one caught sleeping in the big guy’s bed.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 _Wouldn’t be the what now?_  

Questions, oh so many questions, sprout through his mind, each posing more and more possibilities he doesn’t have the energy to explore but he can’t stop his brain from contemplating.  First off, what the hell?  Second off, how the fuck did Wash spend so much time here without him noticing?  Sure, Maine and Wash are friendly, about as friendly with each other as any of them can be, but huh?  His brain hurts, exhaustion pressing down around his eyes.  “Oh-okay,” he says before shoving himself back into his bed.  “Whatever you say, Rookie.”

York rolls over and stares at the wall until the sounds of Wash getting himself settled in bed fade to nothing.  Maybe if he prays long and hard enough, his eyelids will drift closed and he’ll be able catch some shut eye.  Maybe he’ll be able to put the last five minutes out of mind and just pass the fuck out.

_But why would Maine tell Wash the room access code?_

Nope.  Its official.  His brain hates him.

York tosses and turns for far longer than he’d like to admit, his mind running on overdrive trying to unravel this particular puzzle.  And yeah, he and Maine aren’t particularly close, but you pick up things when bunking with another person, but York hasn’t picked up enough to figure out why the fuck Wash would come here or all places while Maine’s still in surgery.  He just doesn’t get it.

In the early hours of the morning, York startles out of his doze at a soft, pained noise.   _Woah, did I do that?_  He peers at the ceiling through the darkness, listening.  His eyes have nearly drifted shut when he hears it again.   _Okay, definitely not me.  So that leaves…_ Quietly, York rolls onto his side and checks across the room.  Despite the low light and the bulk of blankets, Wash’s shoulders are tight and shuddering.  The noise slips out again, almost a squeak as Wash curls in on himself.  

Before he realizes, York is out of bed and across the room.  “Wash, you okay?”

Wash jerks at the sudden question.  He startles onto his back, eyes wide and brimming with tears before he actually takes in York in front of him.   “Shit,” he says, deflating against the thin mattress.  “I thought you were asleep.”

“Same,” York says, perching on the edge of the bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “What’s going on, Wash?  You’re not usually this jumpy.”

“Sorry, I--” Wash cuts himself off.  He buries his face in the bedclothes for a minute before re-emerging.  “When I heard he got hit, it rattled me.”  He shakes his head.  “I should’ve been down there.  I should’ve done something.”

“You did your job, Rookie.  Got the package secured.  The rest of us were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Maine included.”

Wash burrows deeper into the blankets, his back to York, his head practically pressed against the wall.  “No, you don’t understand,” he whispers.  “When we hauled him into the pelican, I thought he was… he wasn’t moving, wasn’t responding.  And I just froze.  I was there, and I couldn’t do a goddamn thing to help.”

York lays a gentle hand on Wash’s shoulder.  He’s still shaking, tiny aborted motions as Wash tries to hold himself together.  “You’re not the first person to freeze when a friend gets hurt, Wash.”  

“I know,” Wash says, slowly letting his weight settle backward against York’s hand.  “It’s just different when it’s your partner.”

 _Partner?_  York’s brow wrinkles.  The Director likes “letting the system run its course” too much for any of them to regularly work together in the field.  So when Wash says “partner” does he mean _partner_ partner?  Like the late night conversations and sharing a bowl of spaghetti together until you both are eating the same piece of pasta and you end up lip to lip definition of the term?

Then again, since Wash got moved up to Alpha Squad three months ago, he and Maine have gravitated toward each other during briefings, training, even down-time.  And suddenly, all those lingering glances and standing in each other’s personal space makes a lot more sense.  York may not do romance himself, but he’s been around long enough to get it.  ‘Cuz yeah, it’s totally different when it’s your partner on the line.

Just as Wash lets out another pained little noise, York crawls across him and scoots into the bunk between Wash and the wall.  “C’mere,” he mumbles, coaxing Wash to uncurl and press his face into the crook of York’s neck. He can feel Wash’s breath against his skin and throws an arm around him.  “Maine’s tougher than you, me, and South all put together.  He’s gonna be okay.  Just gotta give the docs time to patch him back up.”

Wash nods, still staking and swallowing quiet little cries.  York rests his cheek against Wash’s head and rubs his back for a long time.  Eventually, Wash’s breathing evens out and his whole body slumps forward against York.  He swallows a quip about leaning on the little guy and lets himself breathe a little easier.

“FILSS?” he whispers.

“Yes, Agent York,” the AI replies from the speaker just over the bunk, pitched low for York’s ears only.

“If surgery wraps before my morning alarm, notify us immediately.”

“Of course, Agent York.”

“Thank you.”

And with that, York nuzzles up against Wash’s hair and wills himself to relax.  Rest now.  Think up ways to tease his co-workers later.  Once Maine’s on the mend and Wash is back to himself.  Until then, sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, and concrit welcome! Come scream with me on Tumblr (birdsbeesandlemonadetrees.com)


End file.
